Read Online A Gracious Plenty by Sheri Reynolds - Free Book Online
Authors: Sheri Reynolds
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bedspread. My water heater is broke, and I got the ladies’ Sunday school class in a blue-headed tizzy over the bum that died a few weeks back.”
“William Blott?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Leonard growls. “You been talking to him, too ?”
“Sure enough,” I claim, and he shakes his head and cranks the car again. I can’t tell if he’s more annoyed or calming down, but then he resigns himself to a hollow laugh.
“Well, when you were talking, did he tell you he was a queer?”
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” I say.
“Oh yeah,” Leonard continues. “He was as queer as they come. Did he tell you he paraded around in ladies’ panties?”
I don’t have an answer for that one.
“Did he tell you, Finch, that he was the one who was stealing women’s underpants off the clotheslines back a year or two ago? Poor old Reba Baker recognized her own undergarments in his things.”
“You sure he was the thief?” I defend. “There’s a lot of white bras and underpants for sale at Sears and Penney’s.”
“Well, we can’t exactly prosecute him for it anyway, now can we?”
“Then don’t accuse him.”
And right when we get to the cemetery, he says, “That bastard didn’t even have a house on the property. Musta had a dozen little pop-up campers back there. All of ’em old and dirty—filthy nasty. We haven’t even been through his stuff. The ladies’ Sunday school class went into one camper and found all their underthings, and that was the end of it.”
I hurry to get out, but I can’t find the door handle at first. When I finally get it open, I’m red in the face and about to start cussing.
“Shoot,” Leonard says. “If you talk to William, ask him if he had anything to do with the break-ins over on China Street.”
I slam the door hard and head for Lucy’s stone.
T HE DEAD HAVEN’T come in from their day’s work, and I haven’t got the energy to meet them. I wait at Lucy’s grave for a bit, and then I make my way across the hill to admire the Blott memorial. It doesn’t even need a tree or a shrub planted to beautify the place. It’s regal all on its own.
And I’m not meaning to eavesdrop. I’m really not. I’d been thinking William was out conjuring a breeze—forgetting that he’s not light enough yet to leave the surrounding area.
I’m not meaning to snoop. Most of the Dead know me already and know that while I can’t reach them, I’m sometimes with them. But William has taken what the Mediator said too literally, perhaps. She’s told him that the living world walks a contiguous plane. He hasn’t been around long enough to learn there are always exceptions.
And so admiring his tomb, I happen to see him holding baby Marcus in his arms, rocking. I happen to see William Blott nursing Marcus with bright blue ninnies. He’s cut a spongy football in half and locked his ninnies into place with a maternity bra. And baby Marcus, who always cries, baby Marcus, who screams each time the mayor or his wife or even Leonard passes through the cemetery gates, the baby is sucking, content. He reaches to William Blott’s cheek and touches it with a small dirty hand.
T HE FALLING RAIN makes the night seem cooler than it is. I usually spend damp evenings in the house, but tonight I’ve got things to talk over with Lucy. Already my dungarees are soppy, my shirt drenched through. And though my hair, as a rule, grows up and out like a bush, on this night, there are curls coiling in front of my eyes. I wipe the water from my face, one side smooth, one side pruned, and give Lucy an earful. “I’m telling you he had ninnies . And that baby was sucking.”
“Did he see you?” Lucy asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I ran.”
“Why’d you run?”
“Just because,” I spit. “ ’Cause what else could I do? He’s a man , and that baby sucking …”
“Marcus isn’t crying anymore,” Lucy says.
“I know.”
“I haven’t heard him cry all day. It’s been a
“William Blott?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Leonard growls. “You been talking to him, too ?”
“Sure enough,” I claim, and he shakes his head and cranks the car again. I can’t tell if he’s more annoyed or calming down, but then he resigns himself to a hollow laugh.
“Well, when you were talking, did he tell you he was a queer?”
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” I say.
“Oh yeah,” Leonard continues. “He was as queer as they come. Did he tell you he paraded around in ladies’ panties?”
I don’t have an answer for that one.
“Did he tell you, Finch, that he was the one who was stealing women’s underpants off the clotheslines back a year or two ago? Poor old Reba Baker recognized her own undergarments in his things.”
“You sure he was the thief?” I defend. “There’s a lot of white bras and underpants for sale at Sears and Penney’s.”
“Well, we can’t exactly prosecute him for it anyway, now can we?”
“Then don’t accuse him.”
And right when we get to the cemetery, he says, “That bastard didn’t even have a house on the property. Musta had a dozen little pop-up campers back there. All of ’em old and dirty—filthy nasty. We haven’t even been through his stuff. The ladies’ Sunday school class went into one camper and found all their underthings, and that was the end of it.”
I hurry to get out, but I can’t find the door handle at first. When I finally get it open, I’m red in the face and about to start cussing.
“Shoot,” Leonard says. “If you talk to William, ask him if he had anything to do with the break-ins over on China Street.”
I slam the door hard and head for Lucy’s stone.
T HE DEAD HAVEN’T come in from their day’s work, and I haven’t got the energy to meet them. I wait at Lucy’s grave for a bit, and then I make my way across the hill to admire the Blott memorial. It doesn’t even need a tree or a shrub planted to beautify the place. It’s regal all on its own.
And I’m not meaning to eavesdrop. I’m really not. I’d been thinking William was out conjuring a breeze—forgetting that he’s not light enough yet to leave the surrounding area.
I’m not meaning to snoop. Most of the Dead know me already and know that while I can’t reach them, I’m sometimes with them. But William has taken what the Mediator said too literally, perhaps. She’s told him that the living world walks a contiguous plane. He hasn’t been around long enough to learn there are always exceptions.
And so admiring his tomb, I happen to see him holding baby Marcus in his arms, rocking. I happen to see William Blott nursing Marcus with bright blue ninnies. He’s cut a spongy football in half and locked his ninnies into place with a maternity bra. And baby Marcus, who always cries, baby Marcus, who screams each time the mayor or his wife or even Leonard passes through the cemetery gates, the baby is sucking, content. He reaches to William Blott’s cheek and touches it with a small dirty hand.
T HE FALLING RAIN makes the night seem cooler than it is. I usually spend damp evenings in the house, but tonight I’ve got things to talk over with Lucy. Already my dungarees are soppy, my shirt drenched through. And though my hair, as a rule, grows up and out like a bush, on this night, there are curls coiling in front of my eyes. I wipe the water from my face, one side smooth, one side pruned, and give Lucy an earful. “I’m telling you he had ninnies . And that baby was sucking.”
“Did he see you?” Lucy asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I ran.”
“Why’d you run?”
“Just because,” I spit. “ ’Cause what else could I do? He’s a man , and that baby sucking …”
“Marcus isn’t crying anymore,” Lucy says.
“I know.”
“I haven’t heard him cry all day. It’s been a
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